


nightly too unreal

by notthetsar



Category: Frühlings Erwachen | Spring Awakening - Frank Wedekind, Spring Awakening - Sheik/Sater
Genre: F/M, M/M, melchior is a BAD guy in this fic he's BAD BAD BAD, nobody's dead for my sake lmfao, thea is not hanschen's sister either because where did that come from???, this is not what you think i promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-23 22:25:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14342241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notthetsar/pseuds/notthetsar
Summary: "when his lips quirk upwards, she can't help but wonder if he's the devil in disguise once again."





	nightly too unreal

**Author's Note:**

> okay so i happen to be a big fan of mashing up every form of spring awakening canon into one big giant mess, and this will be one of those times! i needed to get some thea angst off my chest. this is somewhere between being mostly-musical based (the 2001 workshop to be exact) and also slightly inspired by anya reiss's spring awakening modernization. i love my minor characters, so they'll be mentioned throughout. the title of this comes from the cut song "a comet on its way."

thea’s mother had been stuffing her head full of lies since she was six years old. she told thea that her wishes would come true (as long as she kept dreaming about them), that she was beautiful no matter what others said, and most outrageously, that love was all about equality. that thea would give her affections, and receive equal attention and respect in return.

at age twelve, thea had been willing to believe this wholeheartedly. she kept her braids perfect, the ribbons tied around the ends shaped into neat little bows. she ironed her dresses and shirts with care, stayed as fashionable as she could with what little money that had, and was always obedient. and she could perfectly parrot her mother’s delusions without ever doubting the words.

no heartbreak for little thea! she'd be the heartbreaker!

seventeen-year old thea, eye makeup smudged “sexily” and copious amounts of liquor beneath the bed, laughs bitterly at all the false truths she'd once put her soul into hoping for.

—

melchior gabor texts her wanna hang? at nine o’clock on a school night, but they told her that all her lovesick dreams would come true if she just played nice and obeyed his every wish. 

so, she responds within fifteen seconds. not cool. but nobody else needs to know how secretly uncool she is when it comes to melchior gabor 

(even if every one of them is disgusted by her pathetic pining anyways, because it's not that much of a secret after all)

why?

his reply takes twenty minutes, and her eyes are glued to her phone without pause for each second of the time that passes. you’re gorgeous and i’m high.

he wants to get laid. she sighs, grabs her jacket, and is out the door within a minute.

— 

“do you love me?” she asks when he's finished. (she never finishes, because it's not about her pleasure.)

the space between them seems to widen by fifteen kilometers at the question. not literally, of course — he's holding her right against him, her head tucked into the crook of his shoulder, eyes glued to his face while his are glued to the ceiling. the air is taut with a tension she can't quite describe. the only tension she's ever felt around him. a constant fear of embarrassing herself, one never quite baseless judging by the way he wrinkles his nose at her when she giggles. in fact, she can't even breathe right around him! truly; he told her after gym class one day that her breathing was “so nasally.” how could you breathe nasally? 

hence, in this moment, she's holding her breath, as nonsensical as his complaint is. she's practically glowing, too — and she knows he can see it by the smug smirk that slowly works its way up his face, the one she can't help but melt over, even when all the other girls practically vomit at the sight of it.

“love? i don't know, thea. is there such a thing?”

he's chastising her, in his own way. knocking her down a few pegs. letting her know how remarkably stupid she is, once again. even so, her heart splinters, cracks open wider than the invisible space between them. her face falls as her heart sinks into the pit of her stomach, yet he doesn't comment. he never comments on her sadness — in fact, he never really comments on any of her moods. only her on his.

“well...of course there is! don't you believe that some people we know are in love?” 

another stupid question. she winces the instant it's out of her mouth. his jaw is set now — he's tired of her. he's always tired of her when he's not sleeping with her. their entire relationship is built around sex she's never really in the mood for, and conversations he's never up to having. 

“like who? martha and moritz? anna and georg? don't be dense.”

he sounds bitter now, each word laced with some underlying threat. something that makes her squirm slightly in his grasp, as if he'd let her out of his grip. his arm tightens around her instead, collapsing her chest just enough that the air feels stifling once again.

he only likes to keep her close when she's uncomfortable. when she wants to get away. she's only attractive to him in those moments, she believes. when he can control her. when that darkness is ready to swallow him up.

he nearly hit her, once, in a moment of real heat. she'd been talking back. fighting with him. she wasn't so cute when she spoke up. he liked her best with her mouth shut, preferably due to his lips being pressed against hers. she swore he relished the fact that she loved him so much.

“how about like you and hanschen?”

she'd been bottling that up for so long. it wasn't like nobody knew, after all — everyone knew melchior slept around behind thea’s back, but that he especially winded up in hansi’s bed. however, her revelation didn't even seem to phase him. that fact causes her brow to wrinkle. shouldn't he be aghast? shouldn't he be something? feel anything? 

“i don't love hanschen. just like i don't love you, or reinhold, or max von trenk, or even ilse that one time after —”

that's too much for her to hear, and he knows it. she shoves him off with a new sort of anger glimmering behind dark eyes. he loves provoking her. he loves stealing the oxygen from her lungs and never giving it back, watching her gasp and gasp for air. she doesn't say a word at first, pulling on her t-shirt with shaking hands.

“i don't believe you. not about ilse, at least.”

ilse was too smart for that, wasn't she? that girl had been a missing person for a year when she was fourteen. she'd seen far more than most of them combined ever would. sure, ilse was a fucking trainwreck — in fact, every name melchior had spoken was, save for her own — but didn't she know better?

“you don't have to believe me. i wouldn't recommend asking her about it, but if you did, i’m sure she'd tell you what flourished last year.”

so smug is he, with his chin up, a lazy grin remaining on his features. he doesn't even move. she's halfway out the door. he can have the last word this time. she's too tired to keep fighting for his attention. after all, he breaks her heart every tuesday night. he’ll clumsily stitch it back together by next saturday, when he shows up at her house and asks for forgiveness. he never begs, and he never has to. she’s the one who'd beg if he waited any longer.

she regrets leaving almost the second she's out the door.

—

it's funny. all the freshmen are so jealous. they worship the ground she walks on now. that's what you get for being melchior gabor’s girlfriend: the underclassmen think he's so great. the upperclassmen think she's the stupidest girl to walk the earth.

maybe she is. he makes her feel stupid all the time, after all. shows her his grades to laugh at hers. corrects all of her pronunciations, even if his are the ones that are wrong. makes fun of the girlish, easy-to-read books she loves. insults her when she looks too childish. judges her when she looks too grown-up.

he's awful, but she'll never leave. because when he's good, he's so good. smooth as butter and cool as ice. a master of twisting words into phrases that make her melt, and even worse, makes her believe every word of what he says is true. but he'll never convince her that he loves her. if he did, then she could finally be free. then she would leave him. then she could be the heartbreaker.

and he'll never let her have that. never.

so she'll plaster a smile on her face and play along. pretend she doesn't know who he's sleeping with. pretend she loves the jealous looks, and that she can ignore the pitying ones. pretend she doesn't hear the rumors and insults.

pretend she's okay with all of it.

**Author's Note:**

> i hope this was decently enjoyable, or at the very least, a little painful!


End file.
